But sorrow has darken’d the noon of our day, And peril and doubt have encompass’d our way; My heart’s only love in captivity lies, And thy glory, O Derwent, is dimm’d in mine eyes. Sad lake of the mountains, through dangers I roam, With a pang in my heart and a blight on my home, To dream of the joys that shall bless me no more, And mingle my sighs with the moan of Ladore. GRAHAM’S MAGAZINE. * * * * * Vol. XLI. PHILADELPHIA, October, 1852. No. 4. * * * * * [Illustration] =SONNET:—TO THE REDBREAST.= When that the fields put on their gay attire, Thou silent sitt’st near brake or river’s brim, Whilst the gay thrush sings loud from covert dim; But when pale Winter lights the social fire, And meads with slime are spent, and ways with mire, Thou charm’st us with thy soft and solemn hymn, From battlement or barn, or hay-stack trim; And now not seldom tun’st, as if for hire. Thy thrilling pipe to me, waiting to catch The pittance due to thy well-warbled song: Sweet bird, sing on! for oft near lonely hatch, Like thee, myself have pleased the rustic throng, And oft for entrance ’neath the peaceful thatch, Paid the cheap tribute of a simple song. * * * * * [Illustration] =FANNY LEIGH.= =BY MRS. TOOGOOD.= Unskilled in lore was Fanny Leigh, But learned in wisdom mild, That glowed all soft and tenderly In that meek, blue-eyed child. And why the sigh? why sad the brow? She conned it o’er and o’er, And found out anxious thoughts, and how They prey upon the poor. Her soft young hands, she did not fear, Could aid the feeble old: How blest for her to wipe their tear, And clothe them from the cold! And she hath left the rose-clad cot, From youth’s one home to part, Armed with resolve—revealing not What tempest at her heart. None saw the drops that dimmed her eye, When a sad breeze and keen Came answering with a long-lorn sigh From that still village scene. Forth hath she gone—a summer boat Skims o’er the glassy bay With slender strength—nor dreads to float Where the stern waters lay.